


how the world goes round (if the moon were to die)

by richiegayzier



Category: An Inspector Calls - Priestley
Genre: Gen, also does gerald reciprocate feelings? Maybe we'll never know, gcse, god i hate myself, hm, if you know u know ;), its implied that eric Isnt StrAight, titlr sounds pretentious af lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richiegayzier/pseuds/richiegayzier
Summary: “Whu ae ye wantin’, Croft?” He mutters, cigarette placed cautiously between his lips. I laugh forcefully. “Can’t a fellow just offer his mate a light without some agenda?”A sigh. “Ye, bu ye ain sum fella.” He turns to face me, eyebrow raised. “N ye ain me mate, boyo. So I ask ye again. Whut’n the dickens do ye want?”





	how the world goes round (if the moon were to die)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my gcse course n here we are... ://

I walk out. There’s a feeling of hope in me, that Sheila might grab my arm, say she forgives me, ask me to stay, but there’s none. I walk through the corridor, see Eric sitting rather stressed on the staircase, head in hands as his leg bounces nervously, and I half think to sit with him, comfort the lad. I don’t. Foregoing my coat, I step into the cool night air before slamming the front door behind me. _Daisy is dead._

It’s just a short walk to the corner of Brumley street. My watch reads 11:30pm, and, as suspected, out comes officer Peter Thiel for his nightly fag. I stroll over, and hand him a light.   
“Whu ae ye wantin’, Croft?” He mutters, cigarette placed cautiously between his lips. I laugh forcefully. “Can’t a fellow just offer his mate a light without some agenda?”  
A sigh. “Ye, bu ye ain sum fella.” He turns to face me, eyebrow raised. “N ye ain me mate, boyo. So I ask ye again. Whut’n the dickens do ye want?”  
“Alright, fine. All I need go know is if there’s an officer that goes by the name of Goole on your force. G-O-O-L-E.”  
There’s a bored expression on Thiel’s face. “No. There’s nut. So if yer’ll kindly f-”  
“Rather average looking man, quite imposing,-”  
He puts a finger to my lips, exasperated by now. “Gerald. He don’t. Feckin’. Work ‘ere.” He rolls his eyes, turning away to face back into the night. “Whut’s it t ye, anyway, aye? Whut’ve ye done this time?”  
I stutter, indignant. _Daisy’s dead._ “I’ve done nothing! I’m just- just- having an argument with Arthur, is all.”  
“Ya.” He scoffs. “Aight. Sure ye are. Now, if ye don’t mind, I be wannin ge back to me cig.” As I begin to walk away, he speaks. “N Croft?” I look back. “Tell Birling’s queen of a son ‘a said hey.” And the bastard _winks._

Back at the house, I try to ignore it. The nagging sadness. I can’t. Because Daisy is gone. That sweet, gorgeous girl….. gone. And for what! I admit, I never loved her. But even still, I can’t help feel… guilty. Except that man isn’t an Inspector, if there’s any credibility to Thiel’s words (and I believe there is, much as I dislike the man). So if he isn’t who he says he is, who’s to say Daisy’s dead? Who’s to say her name was really Eva? Who’s to say that they’re all the same girl?

There’s a smash round the corner, some fumbled cussing, and it sounds incredibly like-  
“Eric.”  
The younger man turns, caught, and I have to catch myself. He looks as though he’s been crying. No, sod that, sobbing. He looks like a scared little boy. He is, I suppose. Too young to be an alcoholic. Too young for the harsh cruelty his own father serves regularly. Too young to be caught up in the trouble the rumours say, and I myself believe, he is. This time, I step forward. “Eric.”  
He turns away, scrubbing furiously at his face. “Leave me be, Croft.” His voice wavers around unshed tears. “Just let me be.”   
I stay. “Come on, Eric. Speak to me.”  
And unbelievably, he looks like he might. Until we hear the muffled distress of Mrs Birling through the walls. The boy laughs depreciatingly. “That’s my cue, I guess.” He mutters, shouldering towards the front door. He stops, turns back, like he wants to say something deeply important. “Have a nice life, Croft. I’m…” But he can’t finish, instead stepping inside. I feel strangely let down, like I expected something more. I dismiss it. A little while later, after I hear the door close again, I let my thoughts go, and head towards the front door. I walk inside.


End file.
